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The world is quiet here poem


Why is Quiet “Kept”?

They are crying out in restaurants, so delighted to be speaking, they appear to be insane. But we are the silent types, who hold speech within like the rustle of gold foil. We eat our words and swallow hard. There’s nothing much to say. The knot’s in its nest, breathing. A hand thinks it’s a bird. The world “nows”; it doesn’t know. The world “wows.” Then it snows. A word arrives, silent and upright. It stands in profile against a white wall. It’s here for safekeeping only. Keep quiet, mice. A cat’s patrolling the area, with drones and more drones. The keys we carry unlock us every day and lock us up again. Hushed is the ward. Now conjugate, please, to werd and to werld. One of us has just conceived the sum for infinity: plus one, plus one, plus one. In the cosmological phone booth, there’s always one more. The fishing report’s too thick to read, but its cadence is that of a god. Waves and ships are passing. We can barely discern the semaphores flashing through the fog. And here are the ones who walk the walk and talk the talk, blackening the day with news, with news.


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We’ve uncovered new evidence of Isadora Quagmire’s VFD research.  Poem is as follows:“VFD stands for Volunteer Fire Department, To do noble deeds its members are rather ardent. The VFD insignia is in disguise, You will find the initials hidden in an eye. Their activities are unclear and concealed, VFD is careful to not be revealed. They’d take gifted kids away from their peers, To be trained to become new Volunteers. The headquarters were stationed from east to west, Volunteers would fight fires and give it their best. Long ago there occurred an unethical schism, And so this division caused great skepticism. By Volunteers and Villains they are now divided, But the same information they are all provided. The same codes and disguises are used by each side, And they also share the same tattoo of an eye. It is now hard to tell when they communicate, Whether they’re asking for help or setting up bait. Volunteers and safe places are starting to disappear, I hope these words will soon be true: “The World is Quiet Here.”” Art inspired by original illustration by Brett Helquist.  Original poem by Mimi Reaves



The Slippery Slope Quotes

“A man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called "The Road Less Traveled", describing a journey he took through the woods along a path most travelers never used. The poet found that the road less traveled was peaceful but quite lonely, and he was probably a bit nervous as he went along, because if anything happened on the road less traveled, the other travelers would be on the road more frequently traveled and so couldn't hear him as he cried for help. Sure enough, that poet is dead.”
― Lemony Snicket, The Slippery Slope

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“If you feel . . . that well-read people are less likely to be evil, and a world full of people sitting quietly with good books in their hands is preferable to world filled with schisms and sirens and other noisy and troublesome things, then every time you enter a library you might say to yourself, 'The world is quiet here,' as a sort of pledge proclaiming reading to be the greater good.”
― Lemony Snicket, The Slippery Slope

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“The central theme of Anna Karenina," he said, "is that a rural life of moral simplicity, despite its monotony, is the preferable personal

People have grown used to existence in each other’s company all the time during the past two years, what with active from home and lockdowns. And it looks like now some countries are loosening the restrictions and urging workers to leave back to the office (no doubt to justify those enormous leases that businesses are still paying). But there was a time when being apart was not common and quite stressful to put up with. This poem is about that – I remember that I got so used to The Husband being around that when he was not there, my intellect started playing tricks on me.

STRESSFUL QUIETUDE I think it’s moment that you come home - It’s quite a strain to be alone. When you’re away the doors go squeak, the joists reverb as though they speak, the robot vacuum’s click-click-click sounds like the stabs of an ice pick wielded by an evil stranger. Every short-lived noise spells danger! Even the voices in my head won’t shut up when I depart to bed; it’s so still, my ears are ringing. How I miss your laptop tinging, the echo when you roll your chair, your hurried clomping down the stair. I’m tense like the slide of a gun: this type of solitude’s no fun. "Stressful Quietude", by the Bear of Small Br

The world is rapidly changing, and there is no return to the way things were before.

On Friday morning, the terror organisation known as the IDF launched a large scale attack on Iran, claiming they wanted to put a stop to Iran’s nuclear program — conveniently ignoring that they themselves have a large stockpile of nuclear weapons and refuse to sign the NPT. Nor do mainstream media outlets care to bring this up.

The genocidal Zionist entity was not content with attacking nuclear sites and military bases; instead, it aimed at civilians in residential buildings. To anyone only mildly acquainted with Israel, none of this comes as a surprise; they have been committing genocide for over a year with the support — tacit or explicit — of major Western nations. In these attacks many civilians were murdered.

Among the civilians brutally murdered by Israel was 23-year-old Parnia Abbasi, who was murdered alongside her parents and 15-year-old brother. Abbasi was an English teacher, bank clerk, and burgeoning poet.

Here I want to share her most famous poem, The Extinguished Star, which was published in the literary magazine, Vazn-e Donya. It is a beautiful poem, one that re

the world is quiet here poem